


The Turning Point

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 09:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Yet another first time story from me. This one late, unplanned, but vastly welcome to both men.Very social/family/domestic story. Lunch out with friends and dinner take out watching the telly. Mycroft flirts with Rosie, who flirts back.





	The Turning Point

“Love me,” he thought, waking, too blurry to wonder who he asked. “Love me.” Then he rolled over, woke a little more, and went to the little loo in his little flat, and peed, and showered, and shaved, and splashed himself with traditional, spritely “Old Spice” aftershave—a respectable brand that was unlikely to gag anyone who landed next to him in the lift, even if it wouldn’t whisper seductive, suggestively understated things, like whatever the hell bespoke scent Mycroft Holmes wore. The words that he’d woken to faded, dimmed, were lost in the currents of conscious thought, leaving only a lingering echo of wistful longing. “Love me. Oh, damn…love me?”

From there on, it was all digging for a clean outfit for the day, having found a smudge of mustard on the lapel of the jacket he’d planned on, and then found the chino trousers that went best with the replacement jacket crumpled at the bottom of the cardboard box he’d been using as a hamper since he left his ex. Then it was rushing around finding his keys, and his briefcase, and failing to make up a hot cuppa to fill his thermos mug, and a promise to himself to bring the cup and fill it at a café on the way to work—a promise he broke by forgetting the mug as he located his socks and his shoes and his wallet and his reading glasses. Then out the door at a lope, and around the corner to the tiny little commercial car-park where he kept his car, and off to work—remembering the forgotten mug half way there and swearing.

This was Greg’s life. Nothing wrong with it, as he’d point out defensively. He had his health, he had his work, he had the things he needed to survive, and it was more than half the bastards in London could claim. He was a pragmatist, and knew better than to cater to silly regrets and moments of…

He veered away from choosing any word to describe the empty feeling haunting him that morning, instead greeting Sally and quickly burying himself in the overall demands facing his unit. He was, after all, a successful DCI, advanced from the old days with Sherlock and John…Or, more properly, the relationship had changed, for many reasons.

The two came by at midday, as it happened, with Rosie in tow. She had the day free from school, and they’d decided to take her out for the day.

“Join us for lunch,” Sherlock asked.

“Could-might do that,” Lestrade said, glad of a break. “Where to?”

“You know the area better than we do, mate,” John said, wryly. “Ever since the move I’ve felt like a stranger to the MET. What’s good locally?”

Lestrade snorted. “Food desert this side of the river. Tourist crap on the other side, what with the Eye and Sea World and the Shrek exhibit and all. We could go down and eat in the MET canteen.”

Rosie’s tiny little squeak of regret for scrumptiousness lost, and the unimpressed gaze of the two men assured him this was no solution. He shrugged. “We’re not so far from Mycroft’s haunts. Call him and ask him where he’d go.”

“He’ll invite himself along,” Sherlock said, though without the bitter resentment he once would have expressed. “He’ll be twee and attempt to twinkle at Rosie.”

“Give him credit—he does a passable imitation of twinkling,” John pointed out. “And he usually picks up the check.”

“A palpable point, given the prices of his usual choice of restaurant.”

“Tsk-tsk. He’s no more averse to a nice curry or pho than any of the rest of us,” John said. “Credit where it’s due. But it’s still nice to get a free lunch.”

“TANSTAAFL,” Sherlock said, ominously, then ruined it by pulling out his smart phone and texting. A moment later he nodded, and said, “Car is coming for us in ten. Let’s get down to the lobby. We are going to be fed.”

Lestrade laughed under his breath, eyes crinkling. Age suited both Sherlock and John, and the responsibility for a child improved them. They had mellowed, set aside old angers and grievances... In the case of Sherlock and Mycroft, an uneasy friendship had formed since the revelation of Euros Holmes. Sherlock had finally come to see his older brother as a much abused ally, rather than an opponent. At least…some of the time.

It all made them easier to deal with. If it also meant that Sherlock ran his consulting work on a more rational, stately basis, with a good deal less insult and running-around, and a good-deal more considered thought and dignity—Lestrade could not really regret it. The halcyon days of Sherlock’s youth were far better remembered than actually experienced.

So they all bundled together into the black car, which carried them across the city to Soho, where they were dropped off in front of Bob Bob Bricard’s.

“You don’t think Russian fusion food aimed at foodies is a bit advanced for a six-year-old?” Sherlock asked, sweeping up to the table where Mycroft was already seated.

“Oh, don’t snivel. It can only expand her tastes, and it’s not like there’s no reliable meat-and-mash in Russian cooking. She’d be fine. Won’t you, my darling,” he added, showing exactly what Sherlock and John meant in saying Mycroft twinkled at his “niece.” It was rather impressive, actually, and the child giggled merrily, and accepted the seat next to Mycroft that he patted in invitation.

Lestrade, looking at the two brothers, was amused. It was clear that Sherlock had made every effort to achieve a distinct look from Mycroft’s elegant bespoke. It was equally clear that he was influenced in spite of all effort—if only in having a high standard to judge himself against. Where Mycroft remained, as always, fairly conservative in his choices, Sherlock had risked a bit more of flash, appearing much like a modernized Cary Grant. He’d left his most recent gaudy, flowing coat and scarf at the hat-check, but his deep charcoal suit was an intriguing blend of dramatic, drapey trousers that swung in sexy style over his long legs, a jacket that was sporty but trim, and a tight black shirt open at the neck. It was modern, streamlined, fluid.

Mycroft was dressed in his most aggressively professional pin-stripe, looking like danger with a briefcase, The Tiger of the Civil Service. He was also quite clearly in the mood for a feed.

“Hard morning?” Lestrade asked, pulling up a seat opposite his host.

“Horrible,” Mycroft said, pulling a face. “The last twenty-five years are going to be written up in history books as the Crazy Years, culminating in the entire government needing to be sectioned. The madhouse is the very least this current lot need. It’s all I can do to retain a rational level of anonymity: people keep trying to find someone to “make things happen,” and eventually discover me. Needless to say, the things they want to happen are always ill-advised, and I’m stuck with the unfortunate job of explaining why in terms their simple minds can understand. My dear,” he added, leaning over the child beside him, “If you let me get you a plate of the vareniki you can have mushroom and mash filling and also taste truffles—no small accomplishment, and one that will prepare you for more exotic culinary adventures in future. I do think you’ll like them. They’re especially nice fried with butter.”

“Mycroft—she’s six,” John said, rolling his eyes.

“John—it’s mashed potato dumpling. Stodgy and appealing as a knish.”

“But—truffles?”

“Just another kind of mushroom.” Mycroft’s face shone with false innocence.

“And what’s the current market price for those ‘mushrooms’?”

“You don’t need to know, as you’re not paying.” The high-handed autocracy was amusing, accompanied by a tipped up chin and raised brows.

John sighed. “Yeah. All right. He’s right, love—fancy mushroom and mash in a ravioli package, fried up with butter. Should be fine so long as you can make him get you something plain for the main.”

She nodded, with eyes more for her glorious, indulgent uncle than for good-old-Papa.

The next few minutes were a merry mumble of men reviewing the menu and considering options.

“Fish and peas? Sherlock…You do realize Mycroft’s buying. Why settle for fish and chips when you don’t have to?”

“Because I eat to live, John—unlike the rest of you gluttons. I am content with simple fish-fry, while you, I can see, are debating a ridiculous Americanized lobster mac and cheese, just because it sounds lush.”

“It is lush,” Mycroft murmured. “But—I do think it’s rather a waste of lobster, John. Consider the lobster, crab, and shrimp pelmeni, or the sole fillet with lobster and champagne sauce. Or both. My treat, after all, and you won’t drown the shellfish in so much pasta and cheese sauce.”

Greg immediately decided he’d be having the pelmeni at the least. He could already imagine the rich seafood in thin wrappers, covered with toasty butter, with gleaming orange salmon roe on the side. And for his main…Mycroft was treating, so Mycroft could worry about the sheer cost of whatever he chose. But—so many choices, and only one lunch to eat them in. He glanced at Mycroft. “What do you recommend?”

Mycroft’s face became a perfect portrait of conflicted longings. “Oh, my. There’s the temptation of the Beef Wellington, even if one has to share that one. And the sole and lobster is both delicious and reasonably dietetic, insofar as meals go here. But—“ there was ill-suppressed longing in his eyes… “I can’t recommend the—“

“The pork belly. Of course.” Sherlock scoffed. “For all your pretensions you are the most revolting low-class gourmand, Mycroft. Fat and rich and obvious—a working man’s dish, unfit for anyone who didn’t keep the pig in his own back garden.”

“Says the man who opted for fish and chips,” John said, smirking.

Mycroft ignored the banter, instead saying to Greg, “It’s not the most expensive dish on the menu. But—it’s delicious, and glorious, and if you like pork crackling on a fatty shoulder roast, or rich, greasy ribs and sauerkraut, or similar decadence, it’s beyond reproach. A very lovely meal.”

“And I shall laugh at you endlessly, while Mycroft watches every bite you eat with the longing of a spaniel watching his owner eat steak, while he will restrict himself to a lunch salad.”

“We are not all blessed with your metabolism,” Mycroft said, with a trace of their former bitterness.

“Now, now. Probably too early in the day for me to eat anything that heavy,” Lestrade said, with a diplomatic smile. “What do you think of the smoked fish pie, Mycroft. A fit lunch for a copper who’s got to go back to work?”

“If you are unembarrassed by the scent of smoked fish on your breath, it would be quite appropriate,” Mycroft said, with a relieved smile: the competitive battle between brothers ended.

The meal was magnificent. But, then, Greg had been living on Chinese delivery food, and on beans on toast, and on sausage and mash for what was beginning to feel like geological eras. The rich fish and gravy topped by puffed pastry was bliss.

Indeed, everyone seemed content with their meal, even if Mycroft did order the salad and, as predicted, watch other people eat with spaniel-like yearning. The look on his face when Rosie, charmed with her special plate of vareniki, offered to share with him was charming. His eyelashes fluttered—outright fluttered—as he accepted the fat little dumpling from her fork, and chewed it slowly, extending the experience.

“That good,” Greg asked, grinning, when Mycroft at last swallowed.

“Better,” Mycroft said.

“Shame I won’t be back soon, then,” Greg admitted. “I can see a dozen things on the menu I would eat.”

They fell silent, each eating with pleasure.

When done, they rose, each explaining what was still to come. For Sherlock and John and Rosie—the London Zoo. For Mycroft. “An afternoon holding off that…that…that utter dandelion in Number Ten Downing Street. Damn his eyes.” For Greg it was a quiet few hours reviewing the current standing of several open cases, and planning for his officers’ court appearances in several others pending.

“And then,” John said. “Take yourself out to the pub? See what you can pull?” He had the sad tone of a man who found himself rooted in domesticity who would enjoy a bit of bachelor recklessness if he could just get it.

Greg, who had come to regard efforts to “go out and meet a willing bit of alright” as penance for some unknown past sin, shook his head. “No such luck. Probably take out curry and a night with the tele. Watch the latest GBBO.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said, eyes lighting. “You watch, too?”

“Can’t resist. Can’t think of a better change from being a copper all day.” Greg grinned. “Spend an hour watching people try to bake Victoria sponge. How cool is that?”

Mycroft laughed. “I know. Struggling with biscuits is my escapist fantasy.”

“Yeah. I can see it.”

John and Sherlock had called for a cab, and were already out of the pavement looking noticeable and ready-to-be-picked-up. Mycroft was dawdling behind, waiting for change from the check. Greg, for no reason he knew, was lingering behind, though he ought to be calling a cab or darting for the Tube. But—he’d always found Sherlock’s older brother appealing.

“Shame we can’t watch it together,” he found himself saying.

(Deep inside he felt an echo of morning, without knowing why…)

Mycroft considered him. “I don’t see why we can’t.” There was deduction going on. But that was a Holmes for you.

“You wouldn’t mind? I mean—if it’s at mine, it’s in a dump. If it’s at yours, you’d have to put up wi’ me on your home turf.”

“I think I can endure,” Mycroft said, eyes glimmering, smile tight but amused. “And perhaps you’d bring the take-away curry?”

“I could do that.”

“I’ll send the car around to yours, then. Just give me a call to let me know when you’re ready tonight.”

“Will do,” Greg said.

“Allow me to drop you off at the MET,” Mycroft said. “It’s more or less on my way, today. I’m over at Babylon on the Thames for the afternoon.”

And so they did.

The trip was uneventful, if you discounted cautious, speculative glances carefully timed to try to go unnoticed, and two men gingerly sampling the mood, wondering what they were getting themselves into.

The afternoon was a revelation. Greg had forgotten what it was like to “look forward to the evening.” To be frantically trying to recall what he owned that was suited to dinner and the Great British Bake Off and a takeout curry with a man he suddenly realized he wanted to impress. Was his Old Spice good enough? Too good? Should he go over smelling of nothing but soap and hope? Wear things pointedly comfy and easy to remove? Soft and touchable?

Why was he on about it? It was Mycroft. Whom he’d known for decades, now, and never thought twice about. Or…

All right. He regularly thought twice. But not with the kind of goal-oriented fervor he associated with being out on the pull, looking for a bit of posh to take home with him.

Of course, it had been awhile since he went out with men. And forever since he’d thought about how much he’d love to be pursued, not the pursuer.

(In his mind a slim-fingered hand crept along the sofa and found his thigh. Came to rest. Fingers stroked, gently, in tiny little motions, awaiting Greg’s response. Crept higher along his inseam when he sighed in appreciation. Found his crotch and nestled in…)

It all made for a very unsettling afternoon.

He chose a t-shirt and a soft cashmere sweater, in lapis-lazuli blue. Navy chinos. Loafers he could kick off easily.

When the curry arrived, he called Mycroft, who sounded as restless and reckless as he himself felt. Then he waited for the car, just barely holding in the thrills and chills shivering up his flanks and raising the hair on the nape of his neck. He’d settled for soap and hope, mainly because he didn’t want to clash with whatever elegant cologne Mycroft picked. He’d rather just be clean, than risk being both lower-class and jarring.

Mycroft met him at the door in long black trousers that showed off five-mile legs, and a plain white button down open at the neck and rolled to the elbow. That tiny flash of tender skin over his throat, the elegant shape of his forearms were enough to set Greg’s heart thundering.

He frowned to himself, dismayed that someone he’d known so long, and taken so for granted, could suddenly shake his own reserve so badly. Then Mycroft dropped a plate, and rattled on like a mere human mortal as he swept up the broken pieces, and he felt more secure.

He was not the only one fielding unexpected reactions, was he?

They ate together on the couch, food on a folding tea table, show running on the telly. It felt homely and comfortable, reminding Greg of his Mum and Da eating tea in winter in the parlor, gas fire burning on one side of the room, telly in front of them, cheerfully making their way through a boiled beef dinner and laughing at the Pythons.

After, the analyzed the different cooks’ performances, and debated the final judgements. They cleared away the dishes, and stored the leftovers. Mycroft brewed them both mugs of tea, put music on the player, and they returned to the sofa.

When the tea was done, Mycroft said, “Well. That’s been grand. What would you like to do next?”

Greg gulped. “What would you like to do next?”

After a pause, the other man not quite meeting Greg’s eye, patted the sofa cushion beside him. “Interested?” he said, very softly.

“Fuck, yeah,” Greg said, as quietly, choking down hunger and glee. He slipped up the sofa, settled carefully, and leaned into Mycroft’s side. He risked a kiss to the other man’s jaw—only to be drawn firmly in, and kissed far more thoroughly.

“Oh,” they both sighed. “Oh, yes.”

Hands spread wide; roamed the hills and valleys and broad steppes of each other’s bodies. Teased out gasps and moans.

“You’re sure you want to risk this? Don’t want to ruin…”

Greg wasn’t able to finish the question—Mycroft was too busy demonstrating how much he did, indeed, want to “risk this.”

Neither was young. Neither was inexperienced. Neither was in any sense unwilling. Or drunk. Or ill. There was no impediment to desire. They slowly brought each other closer and closer to climax.

“How do you want this to go? Do the deed? Choose something else? Dry hump on the sofa?”

Greg found himself half-dressed on the sofa, still in his pants, riding a similarly half-clad lover. He was never sure after whose choice that had been, or if it was just the unchosen outcome of two idiots making it up as they went along. It was good, though…and when they reached peak, they undulated against each other, panting and swearing and gripping tight.

“Love me. Love me. Dammit, please love me…”

“Fucking hell, Greg—“ hips ground against hips. Mycroft held him tight, and buried his face in Greg’s neck. “I do.”

Then they came, making it certain they’d have t further strip and run their pants though the washer and dryer before going home.

Which led to deciding Greg wouldn’t go home at all—at least not that night.

Which led to two men curled contentedly in bed, in the suddenly glorious dark, trying to find sleep when there was too much to think and do and say.

“Soap is a good smell on you,” Mycroft murmured, “But I missed the Old Spice. I never smell Old Spice without thinking of you.”

“It’s not too stodgy?”

“On you? It’s sex in a jar.”

Greg gave a pleased, embarrassed giggle. “And I keep thinking yours is amazing.”

“No. Simple. Even stuffier than yours: 4711. One of the oldest colognes out there.”

“On you? Sex in a jar.”

They laughed together.

“What do you want, Greg?” Mycroft asked, suddenly sounding terrified. “What would you like me to give you?”

“Give me?”

“What—what do you like? What would make you want to stay?”

“Stay?”

“Keep seeing me. Do…this…again. Be… Be mine.”

Greg felt the longing in the other man—and felt his own rise up to meet it, wailing and insane and desperate. Without planning, without thought, he found himself pulling Mycroft close, burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder, holding tight.

“Love me,” said his desire, without his permission. “Love me. Please, please, love me…”

Years and decades alone said it. Unstated affection said it. Sexual yearning said it. A single, divorced man living in a shabby little flat, slowly giving up on himself said it.

Greg said it—and said it again, gasping.

For one moment Mycroft was still, frozen with the passion he’d triggered. Then, suddenly strong, heart singing, he pulled the other man even closer, and nuzzled the side of his head, nosing into silver hair, whispering into a graceful ear.

“I do, my very dearest dear. I do…"


End file.
